“What did she say?”
“Never got the chance to talk to her. Williams took over.”
I replay the episode for him through the lens of my aggravation. He listens with quiet concentration until I get to the part about Lance not being bright enough or strong enough to hold my interest.
“That guy is a jerk,” he says. Then he starts to laugh. “Did you really clock him?”
I pantomime a right hook to the jaw.
“Wish I could have been there to see it.” He takes a sip of his wine, tilts his head, studies me. “I think he’s jealous.”
“What?”
“I think he has the hots for you.”
“He hates me,” I reply with a snort. “And he’s married.”
Lance’s turn to snort. “He’s a male, isn’t he? He’s got a dick. Why else would he disrespect a guy he doesn’t know?”
He tightens his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think about the rest of the story? The vampires turning up drained?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know why he came to me with it. I don’t know what he expects me to do.”
Lance interprets my chagrin. “Do you think he wants you to come back to the fold? Help him track whoever or whatever is doing this?”
I snuggle against his chest. “If he thinks I’d work with him after all we’ve been through, he’s delusional. He’s got the Watchers to figure it out.” I let my hand slide to the bulge between his legs. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. There must be something more pleasant for us to do.”
He laughs and gives me a nudge. “Let’s get you into the shower. Wash away the bar stink first. Then we’ll see what comes up.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice.
SOMEBODY SAID THE SEXIEST ORGAN IN THE BODY IS the brain. Must have been a vamp. It isn’t possible to explain how much of a turn-on it is to be able to feel your partner’s desire and react to it without relying on words. Lance and I don’t have to tell each other what we want. We feel it. We anticipate it.
The air around us becomes charged. First in the shower, then after, again, in bed, the shock of him runs through me like a current. I welcome him into my body, into my head, and it’s more than sharing a moment of physical need. It’s allowing him into my soul.
It’s the second bright spot in an otherwise dreary day.
ONCE AGAIN, LANCE IS GONE WITH THE FIRST LIGHT of day. This time he’s leaving for New York. Abercrombie & Fitch tagged him for their new winter catalog and the shoot will last a week.
I start to miss him before the door snicks closed.
With his departure, exasperation comes flooding back. Exasperation that Culebra could pull such a dirty trick. Exasperation that Sandra wouldn’t even talk to me. Exasperation that Williams still thinks he can jerk me around.
I look around for a distraction.
The Sunday paper is spread out on the coffee table. I never got the chance to go through it yesterday. I have a mug of coffee in my hand so I settle my butt on the couch. Lance’s lingering scent is still in the air and that ’s enough of a distraction in itself that I’m only paying half attention as I leaf through the pages when an article in the business section catches my eye.
The article is about a local cosmetics firm about to make a big splash. But it ’s not the product that catches my eye, it’s the picture of David’s ex, Gloria Estrella, standing beside the president of the firm, a woman named Simone Tremaine. Gloria is to be the spokesmodel for the new product Eternal Youth, a revolutionary antiaging cream (according to the article), and the launch party is in two weeks at Gloria’s restaurant.
It makes me smile. How appropriate for the queen of vanity to be involved in something like antiaging. She’s probably already ordered a lifetime supply.
I take a closer look at the picture. Gloria looks good. Evidently, she’s recovered from her brush with the law. The last time I saw her she had been charged with the murder of her business partner, Rory O’Sullivan. My dad and I helped to get those charges dropped by pointing the police in a different direction. O’Sullivan sold the rights to a formula for an AIDS cure right out from under the noses of his board of directors. Bad move. One director in particular took exception to being cut out of a billion-dollar deal. He hadn’t read the fine print in his contract. O’Sullivan owned the rights to the formula and when a foreign government offered him a huge amount of money, he took the quick and easy way out. Unfortunately, being greedy had a price. His life.
So far, I haven’t received a thank-you note from Gloria. But to be honest, she has lived up to part of the bargain. I agreed to investigate if she’d agree to cut David loose.
Given that David is right this minute vacationing on Paradise Island with a hot real -estate developer he met while looking for investment property, I’d say it’s worked out pretty well.
I’ve finished the paper and my coffee and since it’s a cloudy gray Monday and Lance is gone and I can’t think of anything better to do, I fall back on the last thing I ever want to do—cleaning and laundry.
The vacuum is sitting in the middle of the living room floor, my laundry is divided into whites and colors and Creedence is blasting on the CD player when my cell phone rings.
I dive for the remote to mute CCR and flip open the phone.
This time I recognize the number—from yesterday.
“Culebra.” Coldness creeps into my voice, anger at him for yesterday bubbling to the surface. “That was a fast trip.”
“No. It’s Sandra.”
Sandra? I draw a quick, sharp breath. “What are you doing calling from Culebra’s cell phone? Is he back?”
There’s the briefest hesitation before she replies, “Yes. You need to get down here, Anna. Culebra is ill. I think he’s dying.”
CHAPTER 9
IN ONE HOUR, I’M PARKED IN FRONT OF THE BAR. Everything I did to get here—getting dressed, getting in the car, racing over—was done in a haze. I kept hearing the sound of Sandra’s voice when she said Culebra was dying.
All the rancor I felt yesterday, all the anger and disap pointment is forgotten.
Culebra can’t be dying.
The street is empty. As soon as my feet touch the ground, I’m hit with a curious flutter of energy. Not positive. Not negative. Stinging my skin like pinpricks of electricity.
It gets stronger when I step inside the bar. There’s a sound now, too, a hum. It settles in the middle of my chest and makes my heart race. I press my hand to my chest, fighting the urge to turn and flee.
Where is everyone?
There’s no one behind the bar. It’s littered with empty glasses and a few beer bottles. Most half full, scattered randomly, as if discarded in a hurry.
No customers. No Sandra.
I call her name.
No answer.
I go all the way to the back door—open all the feeding room doors, and still, I find no one.
Uneasiness slithers up my spine.
Could they be in the caves?
There’s a path that leads from the bar to an outcropping of rock about half a mile away. An easy run. I ’ve been here before and know what to expect. The rock hides the entrance to a warren of tunnels—living quarters for the inhabitants of Beso de la Muerte.
I peer inside. The interior is lit with a string of electric lamps. I listen. I don’t hear or sense anyone but the inexplicable hum I first heard in the bar. I hug the wall, following it until there’s a fork, about a quarter of a mile in. The whine is louder and the feeling of static on my skin is stronger. Pressure in my chest builds.